116

They're right over the wall

With my eyes closed I'd think
I could grab their hands,
be pulled up to surface
into the clamor of Sunday afternoon

Up, where the walls are miles of mountains
but without a gate to be guarded
by the boy who lives downstairs
and always holds the door

115

I keep drawing the time
when you lived two towns away
and would sometimes put your window down
when you caught me walking to work.

The picture keeps changing
to tell me that it mattered.

114

Nobody walked in the city today
Tinted windows rolled by
on the usual cars
and dark apartments slept
stories high

As I lead a parade down the musky main road
creatures dance all around me
shaking tree branches
making leaves rain on my shoulders

But I can hear my breath
coming from the sky
whispering into the windows
of the empty cafe crosstown

113

Somehow I know how your hand would feel-
the same way the moon would look up close
It reaches through my window
and spreads out across the walls

112

When you stared at the spot
on the wall behind me
and told it you were leaving here
because you wanted to,
I thought you meant now.

But I still see your little car
parked in your driveway
on the way to work each day-

It never occurred to you
that I'd look for it there?
Then I don't want to change your mind.

Still, I hold my breath
as I turn onto your street.

111

The sky was so beautiful today
when I said to you what I say to me
every hour I'm awake.

You, who I was important to.

But even you looked up
at the sun outlining the clouds
before getting into your car
and backing out onto the road.

110

Walk with my down the old railroad tracks
deep in the now useless woods,
through the crowds of statues I've been building all along
of the bank teller when I was young,
and the lady in the elevator who won't look at me,
and my mother and my father ,
and the teacher who once called home.
Cold and quiet, they watch us solemnly.